


Mistakes Made

by PripyatFitz



Category: S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (Video Games)
Genre: Brainwashing, M/M, OC death, The Monolith being a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15045695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PripyatFitz/pseuds/PripyatFitz
Summary: In which the Monolith continues doing what it does best: destroying lives.





	1. Chapter 1

Pogo hears the thing before he sees it, the deep voice in the back of his mind, echoing through his skull in a way all-too familiar, and his blood instantly runs cold. It can’t be that, just can’t be… but it is. 

He finds the Monolith antennae in the stripped-out ruins of some unrecognisable building, a towering mound of twisted metal and botched wiring, just the same as all the others.  _The others_ … God, Pogo doesn’t want to think about the possibility of more, even though he knows there must be some. Finding this one is bad enough. His mind goes to where Foster and Klaxon are, setting up a camp just a few streets away; they must be just out of range of this… _thing._  Good. Foster’s been making progress, getting less defensive over accusations of the Monolith lying to them all, and Klaxon too has been mentioning it less and less. Them bumping into this would undo all of that, he’s sure of it…

And just like that, it hits him. Pogo knows what he has to do. He has to protect them.

It shouldn’t be too hard; even this close the voice in his head is wavering, faltering, and Pogo can see scorch marks around the base of the behemoth, almost like someone else had tried to destroy it before. Hopefully that’ll make his job easier. He could blow it up… but if it didn’t work, Foster would hear and come running, and that’s the last thing he wants. No, it has to be manual.

* * *

 

Dismantling the antennae by hand turns out to be harder than expected, even with the damage. The metal holds together like something professionally-made, and Pogo finds himself spitting out more than a few curse words as he pulls away chunk after chunk. It’s slow, yes, but less noisy, and that’s the important thing. The voice is getting quieter too, as its transmitter is turned to nothing more than scrap. Just a few more pieces, Pogo thinks, a few more and it’ll all be okay, the voice will be gone and he can lead the others past this building. They won’t be any the wiser.

He’s too focused on his task to hear a pair of heavy footsteps behind him, until a discarded piece of antennae is kicked across the ground, and he drops the bit he’s holding with a yelp.

Foster’s face at that moment scares him more than finding the antennae did. It’s not anger; that would be easier to deal with. No, this… this is like before, before they were freed. The cold blank expression that came with complete subservience, like it’s already too late. Pogo can only watch as Foster steps up to the semi-disassembled statue, places a hand on it, and sighs. “I knew it would come back. I knew the Monolith wouldn’t abandon us. But you…” Pogo shrinks back as his friend- no, his  _partner_  turns to him, eyes steely and emotionless. “You were trying… to stop it? Why?”

“It’s not real.” Pogo’s winces internally at his own wavering voice. “It’s not real, Foster, none of it was real. You  _know_ -”  
“I know the Monolith needs us.”  
”It doesn’t need anything, it was all a lie.”  
”The Monolith wouldn’t lie to us.”  
“But it  _did_! Foster, please, listen to me.”  
”You’re wrong.”  
”Just listen for a sec-!”  
“SHUT UP!” There’s the anger now, but it’s not the same, too sterile and void of any real emotion. Pogo doesn’t know how to calm this kind of rage, and he doesn’t dare try, simply staring at the ground while Foster rants on and on, about all the things he is. A heretic, a failure, a traitor, worthless,  _nothing_ ; each word is like a stab in the heart. Even after Foster’s run out of steam, Pogo doesn’t lift his head. He can’t. He can’t bring himself to see all that progress disappear, to watch the man he loves spiral back to being nothing more than a shell, a puppet for something that doesn’t even exist.

He doesn’t look up when he hears Foster sigh again, muttering about “doing the Monolith proud”.  
Or when he hears a safety catch being flicked off.  
Even the frantic running he mistakes for his own pulse pounding in his ears.

There’s no mistaking it, though, when something knocks him aside just as a trigger is pulled, when a small blond form jerks backwards with a choked gasp… when Klaxon drops like a rock, red pouring from the ragged hole in his chest. 

He’s not quick enough to catch the little body before it falls.  
Too slow to react to Foster’s gut-wrenching scream as realisation snaps him free of the Monolith’s hold, to say or do anything to stop him turning the shotgun on himself and pulling the trigger.

A wave of emotion hits Pogo like a concrete block, the crushing weight sending him to his knees, knocking the wind and the  _resistance_  out of him, and he doesn’t notice the high-pitched whine or the increasingly-loud voice in his head until it’s too late.

 _I can take the pain away._  
I can make it stop.  


Pogo stares at the remains of the antennae. “… make it stop.”

 _I will make it stop._  
Come to me.  
Serve me again, and it will all be worth it.

What else does he have to lose? Standing on tired, shaking legs, Pogo casts one more look at the two he loved more than anything else. Loved. Past tense already. “What do I do now? Where do I go?”

 _You know where to go_.

Pogo nods, just once. 

“Yes, I do… oh great Monolith.”


	2. Alternate Ending

[There’s no mistaking it, though, when something knocks him aside just as a trigger is pulled, when a small blond form jerks backwards with a choked gasp… when Klaxon drops like a rock, red pouring from the ragged hole in his chest.]

* * *

 

Pogo hates remembering that day even now, months on, with the Zone left far behind them; how the light faded out of Klaxon’s eyes, how Pogo had to _step over his body_ to stop Foster blowing his own brains out, pulling the shotgun out of merely faintly-resisting hands and tossing it away. He’d never seen Foster cry before, but after that he’d barely stopped for weeks.

Even when they’d pulled each-other together enough to carry Klaxon outside, to find a soft enough piece of ground and bury him deep enough so that the dogs wouldn’t get to him, marking the spot with a name-carved rock.

Even as they dragged the remains of the antennae apart and scattered the pieces, losing the shotgun amongst the mess.

Even when they fled Pripyat and went back to Freedom’s base, asked Hyena if they could be sent out as the next research-couriers, answered all the questions the officials fired at them, handed over _everything_ in exchange for a fresh start…

Well, almost everything.

Pogo looks down at Klaxon’s PDA in his hands, at their three much-happier faces staring back from the screen, but only for a moment before the ache deep in his chest sets in.  He sticks the device in his pocket, glancing out across the Kiev skyline; It’s a nice apartment they were given, no doubt about that, a good place to start anew. God knows they need it. Sighing, he turns his back on the setting sun, almost walking face-first into an exhausted-looking Foster.

“You sneaking up on me again?”  
“… Sorry.” Foster pauses, like he’s going to say something else, but gives up in favour of first wrapping Pogo in a tight hug and pressing his face into the shorter man’s hair. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking.”  
“About Klaxon?”  
“Hm.” Silence for a minute. “Pogo…  _Cris_ … Are we goin’ to be okay?” Pogo smiles sadly against Foster’s shoulder.

“Yes, Seymon, we’ll be okay.”


End file.
